And Thereby Hangs a Tale (3 page)

'No,' said Jeremy, suddenly feeling guilty, but
at the same time exhilarated. 'It all went to plan.'

'Good,' said Arabella. 'So now it's my turn.'

She rose from her seat and said, 'Better
give me the watch and the cufflinks. I'll need to put them back in Daddy's room
before we meet up this evening.'

Jeremy reluctantly unstrapped the watch, took
out the cufflinks and handed them to Arabella. 'What about the tie?' he
whispered.

'Better not take if off in
the Ritz,' she said. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips.
'I'll come to your place around eight, and you can give it back to me then.'
She gave him that smile one last time before walking out of the morning room.

A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside
De Beers. The door was opened immediately: the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace,
the Balenciaga bag and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in
the habit of being kept waiting.

'I want to look at some engagement rings,' she
said shyly before stepping inside.

'Of course, madam,' said the doorman, and led
her down the corridor.

During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost
the same routine as Jeremy, and after much prevarication she told Mr Crombie, 'It's
hopeless, quite hopeless. I'll have to bring Archie in. After all, he's the one
who's going to foot the bill.'

'Of course, madam.'

'I'm joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,'
she added, 'so we'll pop back this afternoon.'

'We'll look forward to seeing you both then,'
said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.

'Thank you, Mr Crombie,' said Arabella as she
rose to leave.

Arabella was escorted to the front door by the
sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off.
Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an
address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, confident that she would be
back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his
watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn't
miss one of his old school ties.

As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella
admired the flawless yellow diamond.

Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the
letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she'd broken off
the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn't one of our set, never really fitted in.
But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She'd grown rather fond of
Jeremy, and he was very enthusiastic between the sheets. And to think that all
he'd get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian
tie.

Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover
the bill at the Ritz.

She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned
her attention to the man she'd chosen to join her at Wimbledon, whom she had already
lined up to assist her in obtaining a matching pair of earrings.

When Mr Crombie left De Beers that night, he
was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he'd had no
more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.

'Goodnight, Doris,' he said as he passed a cleaner
who was vacuuming in the corridor.

'Goodnight, sir,' said Doris, opening the
door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum. This was where the
customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr Crombie had once told her, so
it had to be spotless.

She turned off the machine, removed the black
velvet cloth from the table and began to polish the surface; first the top,
then the rim. That's when she felt it.

Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared
in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the
table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn't the
slightest trace of it left, then dropped it into the rubbish bag attached to her
cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.

'Such a disgusting habit,' she muttered as
she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the
corridor.

Her Majesty the Queen sends her
congratulations to Albert Webber on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and
wishes him many more years of good health and happiness.

ALBERT WAS STILL SMILING after he'd read the
message for the twentieth time.

'You'll be next, ducks,' he said as he
passed the royal missive across to his wife. Betty only had to read the
telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face too.

The festivities had begun a week earlier,
culminating in a celebration party at the town hall. Albert's photograph had
appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had
been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted
Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were
waiting on the town hall steps to greet the centenarian. Albert was escorted to
the mayor's parlour where he was introduced to Mr David Heathcote-Amory, the
local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later
he couldn't remember her name.

After several more photographs had been taken,
Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred
invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was
welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he'd never met before
began shaking hands with him.

At 3.27 p.m., the precise minute Albert had been
born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven
grandchildren and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife
into a three-tier cake.

This simple act was greeted by another burst
of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet
fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

'Say something,' said
Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.

He blinked, looked around at the expectant crowd,
paused and said, 'Thank you very much.'

Once the assembled gathering realized that was
all he was going to say, someone began to sing 'Happy Birthday', and within
moments everyone was joining in. Albert managed to blow out seven of the
hundred candles before the younger members of the family came to his rescue,
which was greeted by even more laughter and clapping.

Once the applause had died down, the mayor rose
to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his black and gold braided gown and
cleared his throat, before delivering a far longer speech.

'My fellow citizens,' he began, 'we are gathered
together today to celebrate the birthday, the one hundredth birthday, of Albert
Webber, a much-loved member of our community. Albert was born in Street on the fifteenth
of April 1907. He married his wife Betty at Holy Trinity Church in 1931, and spent
his working life at C. and J. Clark's, our local shoe factory. In fact,' he
continued, 'Albert has spent his entire life in Street, with the notable
exception of four years when he served as a private soldier in the Somerset Light
Infantry. When the war ended in 1945,

Albert was discharged from the army and
returned to Street to take up his old job as a leather cutter at Clark's. At
the age of sixty, he retired as Deputy Floor Manager. But you can't get rid of
Albert that easily, because he then took on part-time work as a night watchman,
a responsibility he carried out until his seventieth birthday.'

The mayor waited for the laughter to fade
before he continued. 'From his early days, Albert has always been a loyal
supporter of Street Football Club, rarely missing a Cobblers' home game, and
indeed the club has recently made him an honorary life member.

Albert also played darts for the Crown and Anchor,
and was a member of that team when they were runners-up in the town's pub
championship.

'I'm sure you will all agree,' concluded the
mayor, 'that Albert has led a colourful and interesting life, which we all hope
will continue for many years to come, not least because in three years' time we
will be celebrating the same landmark for his dear wife Betty. It's hard to
believe, looking at her,' said the mayor, turning towards Mrs Webber, 'that in
2010 she will also be one hundred.'

'Hear, hear,' said several voices, and Betty
shyly bowed her head as Albert leaned across and took her hand.

After several other dignitaries had said a
few words, and many more had had their photograph taken with Albert, the mayor
accompanied his two guests out of the town hall to a waiting Rolls-Royce, and
instructed the chauffeur to drive Mr and Mrs Webber home.

Albert and Betty sat in the back of the car holding
hands. Neither of them had ever been in a Rolls-Royce before, and certainly not
in one driven by a chauffeur.

By the time the car drew up outside their council
house in Marne Terrace, they were both so exhausted and so full of salmon
sandwiches and birthday cake that it wasn't long before they retired to bed.

The last thing Albert murmured before
turning out his bedside light was, 'Well, it will be your turn next, ducks, and
I'm determined to live another three years so we can celebrate your hundredth
together.'

'I don't want all that fuss made over me when
my time comes,' she said. But Albert had already fallen asleep.

Not a lot happened in Albert and Betty Webber's
life during the next three years: a few minor ailments, but nothing
life-threatening, and the birth of their first great-great-grandchild, Jude.

When the historic day approached for the second
Webber to celebrate a hundredth birthday, Albert had become so frail that Betty
insisted the party be held at their home and only include the family. Albert
reluctantly agreed, and didn't tell his wife how much he'd been looking forward
to returning to the town hall and once again being driven home in the mayor's
Rolls-Royce.

The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he'd
anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front
page of the local paper.

When the great day dawned, Betty received over
a hundred cards, letters and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert's profound
dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to
blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn't.

'Don't fuss, Albert,' Betty insisted. 'Her Majesty
is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.'

But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived
the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his
wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However,
after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time
had come to take the matter into his own hands.

Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest
daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into
town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window
shopping, as Betty couldn't believe the prices the shops had the nerve to
charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a
week was a working wage.

That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave
the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared around the
corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where
he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was
put through.

After a little while, and once he felt he
was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It
gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.

'Directory Enquiries. What number do you require?'

'Buckingham Palace,' said
Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.

There was a slight hesitation, but the
operat-or finally said, 'One moment please.'

Albert waited patiently, although he quite
expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A
moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.

'Can you please repeat that?' asked a
surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro.

'Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three
zero zero. 'Thank you,' he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes
passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialled
the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was
just about to put the phone back down when a woman's voice said, 'Buckingham
Palace, how may I help you?'

'I'd like to speak to someone about a one hundredth
birthday,' said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.

'Who shall I say is calling?'

'Mr Albert Webber.'

'Hold the line please, Mr Webber.'

This was Albert's last chance of escape, but
before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.

'Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.'